


but i turned and fought them (like you always knew i'd do)

by WhatsATerrarium



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [4]
Category: The AM Archives (Podcast), The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Injury, Lesbophobia, Violence, let owen punch rostova 2k20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28274919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatsATerrarium/pseuds/WhatsATerrarium
Summary: Okay. Owen’s previously decided upon facade of neutrality may need to be briefly tabled entirely, if only because that ever growing rage in the pit of his stomach is demanding his attention.OR:Owen gets to punch Rostova, because who here hasn't wanted to see someone punch Rostova?Edit: I just realized this works for the “kick them while they’re down” prompt on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card.
Relationships: Owen Thompson | Agent Green & Ellie Wadsworth
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631503
Kudos: 14
Collections: Bad Things Happen, Happy Birthday Mark!





	but i turned and fought them (like you always knew i'd do)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boston_sized_city](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boston_sized_city/gifts).



> Happy birthday Mark! You get the Rostova-says-a-slur fic, because I love you!
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful Sam (write_away) for beta reading and providing fun commentary.
> 
> Title is from "Glory" by Radical Face.
> 
> Warning: This fic contains use of the q word and the d slur, both used in a derogatory way. The author reclaims both words.

“Director, with all due respect I really do think that the level of discomfort can be alleviated for the subjects. It’s an easy step to get rid of an unnecessary--”   
  
“That’s enough, Wadsworth,” Rostova drones, sounding fed up as he leads the two agents down the hallway.

Owen is completely unsurprised when Ellie doesn’t seem to take that as final. “I understand, Director, but if you take a look at that report I drew up yesterday, not only is my plan more humane, it’s also--”   
  
He feels bad for not stepping in but, well-- Ellie’s more than capable of handling herself in an argument, that he’s well aware of. 

The next time Rostova speaks again is when he spins around to face the two of them. He turns around so abruptly that were it not for Ellie’s hand gripping his arm to pull him back, Owen would have continued walking right into him. “Agent, I don’t know why you insist on being so stubborn about this, but if--”   
  


“Because I’m  _ right.” _

“Because you  _ queers _ think you know everything.”

Owen feels a swell of rage at that, but remains quiet. He’s not going to jump in, not now. God knows he has nothing to contribute, he’ll probably only end up making things worse if he gets involved. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before. While the language may be a bit more inflammatory than usual, he’s used to maintaining some faux neutrality, providing some form of silent support as Ellie fights the important battles. He’ll step in if she needs him, but he knows she’s more than capable of getting things accomplished on her own.

“It’s an objective  _ fact, _ Director. My suggestions can improve  _ several _ aspects of the experiment, if you would just take a minute--”

“I’m not going to take valuable time that could be spent doing important work and use it to read through pages of nonsense. Unless you can improve this experiment in a way that doesn’t  _ waste my time _ , then I’m done with this conversation, Annabelle.”

This sounds like an opportune time to chime in. “Director, I read the proposal, and I think Agent Wadsworth’s point--”

“Quiet, Green,” Rostova barks smugly. “Let the dyke defend herself. God knows they can’t stand it when men have opinions.”

Okay. Owen’s previously decided upon facade of neutrality may need to be briefly tabled  _ entirely, _ if only because that ever growing rage in the pit of his stomach is demanding his attention.

He expects his mind to clear and for his adrenaline to act for him, but to be fair, that’s always what he expects when making an impulsive decision. No, he’s never in his life been blessed with a moment of pure, rage-induced clarity. This is still a choice he has to make, one that fills him with anxiety and leaves him pondering a million different what-ifs. The thing the adrenaline brings to the table is the complete and total lack of caring. He’s already processing the repercussions before the idea of the action itself even crosses his mind. Still, the weight of possible outcomes are almost drowned out by the want-- the  _ need _ to do something with this rage that’s consuming him.

Owen is not by far the most athletic person in the world. He gets winded running down the hallway, and when he’s anything less than fully alert, he lacks the coordination to chop vegetables without nearly injuring himself. But he was raised in an athletic family. He can… somewhat hold his own when casually tossing a ball around with his cousins, he can understand more of a baseball game than most would probably give him credit for and, most importantly, he knows how to throw a proper punch.

He curls his fingers into his hand, resting his thumb tightly overtop of them and draws back swiftly. The follow through is more exhilarating than he expected. After all, who in this division hasn’t at some point longed for the chance to let their fist collide with the face of the smug, bigoted, asshole they all have to answer to? The one who is currently wiping  _ blood _ off his face and-- oh shit.

There’s a stinging pain in his knuckles and that’s about to be the least of his worries. Before he can even fully take in the sight of Rostova stumbling back and clasping his bloody, now-crooked nose in one hand, he’s met with the sight of a sheer anger that sends fear coursing through him, almost making him feel sick. Rostova steadies himself, steps closer, and glares at Owen with eyes he swears he can see  _ flames _ behind.

It’s only a second before he feels a punch undoubtedly  _ much _ more powerful than his own meet his face, sending him falling backwards. He’s too caught off guard to steady or even  _ catch _ himself, so when he falls, he falls hard. His head hits the ground with a much worse impact than he’s prepared for, worsening his pain and causing him to cry out. Okay, he should have seen that coming.

He squeezes his eyes shut, still reeling from the impact. As it turns out, closing his eyes was a mistake. The swift kick to his abdomen comes as even more of a surprise, as does the one that follows it. His breath is knocked out of him before he can even try to catch it and--  _ shit _ after the third kick the pain becomes  _ unbearable. _ There’s a terrible throbbing pain in his chest, and he’s too focused on that to realize he’s crying until the pooling tears begin to blur his vision.

Rostova stops for a minute, long enough for Owen to blink back his tears and look up at him. He’s looking right back down as though he’s thinking. He delivers one final kick to Owen’s head, bringing back the ringing in his ears that he’d felt when he’d fallen.   
  


“Wadsworth,” Rostova says calmly, sounding at most only a little agitated despite the blood on his face and the fact that his nose is starting to swell up and redden. “Take your lapdog to the medbay. Then maybe work on  _ training him _ a bit better.” He doesn’t even acknowledge Owen lying there as he turns and walks out.

It’s not until Rostova has turned his back on them that Ellie is kneeling down beside him. “Are you alright?”

He’s sure he means to respond with something other than a loud groan. He feels her fingers intertwining with his tightly as she continues to ask him questions.

“One to ten?” she asks calmly.

“Six?” he says, trying to sit up but—  _ ow. _ The pain in his chest hits an uncomfortable surge. He falls back down, caught off guard. But the pain isn’t the most pressing issue here. “I’m going to get fired,” he whimpers. She rises slowly as she watches him struggle.   
  
“You’re not going to get fired,” she responds off-handedly as she holds her hand back out, crouching down to keep her other arm at the ready should she need to stabilize him. “Too many resources go into training us. They don’t fire AM agents unless given reason to believe that said agent is actively working against the organization or otherwise a danger to it.”

“I’m pretty sure assaulting a director of an AM facility counts as actively working against them,” he responds, trying to mimic her tone but his voice still noticeably wavering. He takes her hand and pushes himself up as she pulls. There’s still a sharp pain in his chest that’s worsened as he stands, wincing painfully, and so just as she was expecting, he leans into her for support.

“You’re not going to get fired,” she repeats herself, wrapping an arm around his waist and letting his winces indicate where not to touch. He slings his arm over her shoulders. “What’s hurting?”

“I think he bruised my rib,” Owen replies, half-wheezing it as he tries to catch his breath, only to be met with more pain.

“Don’t tell me you need me to carry you,” she says in the strict and annoyed tone he’s come to recognize as her form of teasing, but the cautious side-eye she’s giving him tells him that it is on the table if he really needs it.

He shakes his head half-heartedly as they begin the slow walk down the hall to the elevator. The hall they’re in is almost entirely deserted.  _ Almost _ is only applicable if they’re counting themselves. There isn’t another soul in sight with Rostova gone.

“What am I going to tell people happened to me?”

“Tell them you punched Rostova. It’ll certainly earn you some respect, which you desperately need around here.”

She’s right about that. Not many of Owen’s co-workers are exactly fond of him. He knows they don’t view him as being very bright or ambitious. And really, who can blame them? Especially when he surrounds himself with…

“He knew I was right,” she says, pressing the up button on the elevator. “My plan would save more time  _ and _ yield more results, not to mention be more humane. But God forbid he listen to me, and he wouldn’t  _ dare _ do anything that might let people think he cares about the atypicals in this division.”

...when he surrounds himself with people like Ellie.

She’s talking for a while as they wait for the elevator, but the door opening for them to enter seems to remind her she has more pressing things to say.

“That was stupid, Green.”

“I know.”

“All you did was put both of us in danger—“

“I know.”

“You got yourself  _ hurt—“ _

“I know.”

“I don’t need you to defend me.”

“I know.”

There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again. “He could have killed you if he wanted to. For a second, I thought he might.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She sighs as the elevator dings and opens on a hallway much more crowded than the last.

“I think I broke his nose,” he says to her quietly, already able to feel everyone else’s eyes on him.

“You definitely broke his nose,” she says, a slight smirk spreading across her face as they make their way past the sea of onlookers and towards the medbay. “That’s going to leave a mark.”

That’ll leave a mark, indeed. Well, at least he’ll have finally left an impact on this organization. Even if it is in perhaps a more direct and literal way than the people who told him he never would had in mind.

**Author's Note:**

> So a big reason why I don't usually leave comments is that it doesn’t feel like a conversation, it feels too definite. So, as opposed to asking you to leave comments (which I do still very much appreciate and will respond to if that’s your thing), I’m going to let you know how to contact me!
> 
> Instagram: whats_a_terrarium  
> Discord: whats_a_terrarium#0251  
> Tumblr: whats-a-terrarium  
> Twitter: whatsaterrarium
> 
> If you have any thoughts, ideas, constructive criticism, or just want to ramble, never hesitate! :)


End file.
